The Greatest Caper
by PropheticDream
Summary: A meeting of the greatest detective minds in history to bring down the world's greatest criminal. Expect at least a cameo by everybody who's ever detected anything ever  that I can think of . Better than it sounds.
1. Chapter 1

Silently, he stole across the rooftops, as fast as his legs would carry him. They would realize what he had done, and soon they would be after him. But he was ready. He had been in this situation countless times before, and they had never caught him. And maybe that was why he felt so empty.

The man danced past rooftop obstacles, sliding under pipes and launching over steam vents, all with carefully practiced silence and precision. He ducked behind a rooftop access door and caught his breath. He reflected upon the beautiful prize he had captured that night, on the plan that went off without a single hitch, on the guards who had acted just as he had predicted, and on the months of planning that were finally coming to fruition. But as he turned all of these things over in his mind, a different feeling came over him. He began to wonder to himself weather or not he would be better off not having gone through with the heist at all. True, he lived for the experience; his schemes were his whole life, recently he was consumed by a sense of futility. Every time he went out, he could execute his plans flawlessly, without any consequence, without any fulfillment. The police could never apprehend him; he knew this not just as a boast but also as a fact. He was without challenge, and so, he was also without enjoyment.

As he reflected upon those truths, that night on the chance rooftop, the man became lost in him, and failed to notice the police helicopter hovering high above his head. It shone its brilliant spotlights in every direction, desperately searching for a man it could not find. But then, suddenly, on that very rooftop! Movement! Something moved!

The man dived out of the way just as the searchlights were about to close him in. He took off as fast as he could possibly run, barreling endlessly through the moonless darkness. He swung around an upstanding pole and came to hide just beneath an old water tower. This was not something he had planned for. This was never meant to happen. This was a serious endangerment to both his plan, and his life. And this… was exiting. The man's heart beat loudly in his ears as he watched the helicopter scan his surroundings, and finding no trace of the mysterious figure it thought it saw, returned to its normal patrol route.

As the bright searchlights gradually faded into the distance, the man relaxed his guard again. For the very first time in his life, he had allowed them to see him, and as a consequence, he knew the thrill of the chase. He felt drunk on this new sensation, a primal and confused state where the only thing he was sure of was himself. He adored the feeling. It brought his mind back years in time, to when he had first committed himself to crime. He remembered the thrills, and though his adrenaline rush lasted only a few minutes, he knew he wanted more.

The man took stock of himself. He pulled the night's prize from the pocket of his shoulder bag, and set it on the edge of the roof. What did a gemstone like this mean to him? He had acquired a multitude of gems and precious stones throughout his life, and indeed each time he had done so perfectly. No other person, no other human could proclaim to have stolen as much as he had, in quantity or in value. Nor could anyone fault his form, his tactics or his practice. He was the greatest criminal in the world, a title none could contest. And now, he was hungry for even more. The simple rush of a chase would not affect him twice, this he knew. He wanted to be hunted, to participate in a game at which every moment he would be dogged and chased and tested. He wanted a chase whose thrills would pursue him his whole lifetime. And he knew how to achieve this end.

He had never left clues before. Never any sort of evidence that would incriminate him in any way; not even something that could be used to locate him. Before that day he was like a ghost, a perfectly clean criminal, leaving nothing behind and taking only what he came for. He knew that to have his chase, he would have to make himself a target. But he wouldn't be reckless, or rash, or impatient. That would provide a window to his actual capture and, in turn, the end of his fun. He would construct the perfect crime. And to do so, he would need to raise the stakes from mere theft. And he would need one other thing: contestants.

With that, he casually kicked the precious stone off the rooftop, into the alley below him, and with a renewed collectedness, evaporated into the night shadows.


	2. Chapter 2

I awoke to the sounds of birds singing just outside my bedroom window. Straining a bit, I rolled out of bed and set myself on my feet. It had been a very late night last evening, and a dull pain in my left shoulder told me I must have slept on something wrong.

I slid my feet into my favorite slippers and made my way down the hall. I knocked two times on the door, but, hearing no response, decided that either my companion was no longer there, or he did not wish to be disturbed. Such was his way. As I got down the stairs, I was greeted by the serving-maid, whom I bade to prepare breakfast and a strong tea. I then retired into one of the various armchairs that adorned our sitting room. The place was a mess, which was likely _his_ doing, so I afforded myself a more amiable view of the street, gazing out the window. The sky was a cloudless blue, and the sun shone brilliantly through our windowpanes. It looked to be a beautiful London morning.

I sat there for a few moments, before I heard a noise coming from upstairs. It started with a loud groan, then the sound of heavy footsteps, and the creak of the door down the hall opening just slightly. His voice came down to me from his chambers.

"Is breakfast ready?" he rasped.

"Just about," I replied "You sound a fright, if I may say so myself. You should make yourself decent and come have some tea."

"I am in no mood for your _nagging_" came the reply, and the door was shut once again. He was quite clearly the worse off of the two of us, but I felt little sympathy for him, on the account of his deplorable behavior the previous night. After idling a few more minutes, the serving-maid approached me and informed that breakfast had been set in the dining room. I thanked her, and picking myself up, shuffled into the adjoining room. I sat down at my place setting, and was about to begin my meal, when my dear friend casually strode in to the dining room and took his chair beside me.

"Good morning, Holmes." I greeted. "Lovely weather outside, don't you think?"

"Hmm?" came his confused reply after a second or two. "Oh, yes, I suppose its fine. I haven't really considered… My head…" Holmes laid his hand on his forehead. Thinking I should do something to make him feel better, I poured out a cup of tea and set it down next to his plate.

"I did warn you about those opiates," I remarked "they aren't good for you. And furthermore, you should really learn to moderate yourself, both when we dine out and in this household." Holmes cast me an annoyed look.

"Oh come off it Watson" retorted Holmes "You sound like a flustered widow. I appreciate your concern, but don't pretend that you weren't hitting the bottle last night as well." At this, I was overtaken by a wave of embarrassment. I felt complied to say something in my defense.

"Look here," I reasoned, "It was only _a few_ drinks and-"

"Calm down, will you?" Holmes interrupted, "You're agitating my headache." I could think of no polite reply to Holmes' comments, and so I contented myself with pushing about my food with my fork. After quickly devouring our breakfast, Holmes produced some documents from his pockets and began leafing through them. "I got the mail, in case you wanted to know," he said without looking up. I was about to excuse myself and return to my window side view when I noticed a look of intrigue creep over Holmes' face. "Watson," he called to me "what do you think this might be?" and held up a black letter bordered with gold.

"It looks fit to be intended for the queen," I said, drawing closer for a better view. "Are you quite sure it has the right address?"

"See that?" Inquired Holmes, pointing at the front of the letter. "'221B Baker Street'. Yes, I believe this correspondence was indeed intended for us." Holmes carefully opened the envelope, and pulled from it a manuscript that resembled its container in design. Holmes read it quickly and silently, and after a few moments of digesting its contents, he abruptly stood and said to me "Watson, get your coat."

"Whatever for?" I asked.

"We must make travel arrangements," replied Holmes. Suddenly, he was rushing all about the house, collecting things, putting them into order, and packing away his effects into boxes. He had a kind of wild look in his eyes, like the kind he gets when he is determined to puzzle something through, and so retreats from the company of the world. "I advise you to prepare, old friend," he said to me through his fury. "We are going to New York City!"


	3. Chapter 3

It was the early evening when the two of us arrived in America. A small storm had rolled in before we did, and so, the streets were still sleek with rainwater and the air possessed an almost otherworldly, heavy quality. As we exited the aero port, I found a hired car waiting for us on the street.

"Holmes," I inquired, "did you arrange this?"

"The man knows which way to go" he replied. "Now would you get in the car? We cannot afford to waste any more time." Normally I might have made a better show of restraining myself, but as of that moment I was still entirely in the dark about why we had made such a voyage and what could have been important enough to drive Holmes like this.

"How much did this cost, Holmes?" was the only thing I could think to say. "And furthermore, why are we here? What about that letter was so important that we had to fly out to meet it. If it was another case, then the clients could have easily approached _us_ back in London. They knew our address; if they hadn't they wouldn't have been able to send that letter in the first place!" He didn't answer right away. He merely continued to arrange his things, and seeing that my friend was already placing his effects in the trunk of this car, I was obliged to do the same. It was only when we had seated ourselves that he rendered back to me a response.

"You're correct on one account, Watson," he said, "but very wrong on the other. The dispatcher and probable writer of this letter does know our address, and could likely have approached us in our home. But this is not just another case, and I'm confident you'll see that in time." And with those words, we were off. Speeding down the highway until finally, the majestic skyline of New York City came into view. I found myself rather captivated by the way the lights gleamed against the backdrop of the darkening sky, but when I glanced at Holmes, I could see that his mind was in some far off location where I shouldn't hope to reach him.

Within the hour, we had arrived at our destination. I did not immediately recognize the façade, at least not until I noticed the grandiose golden statue that adorned the building's front.

"Remarkable," I thought aloud, "This is Grand Central Terminal. What could have possibly taken place here to arouse your interests?" I was about to question my companion more directly, but I turned around to find him already entering the building. I hastened my actions and soon found myself staring down an enormous hall. However, what first struck me was not its size nor its beauty, but rather its neigh emptiness. I had certainly never pictured the station looking the way it did as I saw it, but I suppose this is one of the effects of crime. It drives off the normal and the expected to make way for the disquieting. And this hall was quite clearly a crime scene, although of the weirdest sort I believe I shall ever know. There was a sheet in the approximate middle of the hall, used to cover what I could only assume to be a cadaver, a few police officers milling about, and some scattered characters, a few dressed in rather odd clothing, examining various aspects of the room. Holmes, with myself in tow, strode confidently up to the covered object, and attempted to make our own survey of the situation, however, we were interrupted by a young man in a long grey coat.

"I'm sorry sir," said the man, "I'm afraid I cannot allow you to see the body unless you're authorized to be here." Without delay Holmes produced the black envelope from his pocket.

"Does this" he asked, extending the letter to the stranger, "authorize me?" The stranger took the letter from Holmes' hands and looked it over once. His criteria seemingly satisfied, he handed back the note.

"I apologize, sir," said the man. "It's a standard procedure for all newcomers. I'm Richard Winters, with Interpol. If you need any specifics, I can provide, but it's alright for you to poke around as much as you want." Holmes nodded, and placed his suitcase on the ground next to the sheet. From his case he produced his bag of detective implements, and threw off the sheet to reveal, as I had expected, a human corpse. He immediately went to work examining it, but I, contented to let my friend handle the unsavory portions of the investigation, turned my attention towards Mr. Winters.

" I assume that this place is so devoid of people because whatever took place here," I riddled, "but why is a member of Interpol here? I was under the impression that your organization only dealt with international crimes of great import."

"You're right to assume that," answered Mr. Winters with a sigh. "You have no idea what kind of strain it's putting on this city to close down a transportation hub like Grand Central for so long." With that, wiped his face with his palms and blinked several times. Taking a closer look at him, I noticed that he appeared distinctly tired, as though he had missed sleep for several nights. "Although," he continued suddenly "this may very well be an international crime, and one of great import at that." I was about to ask him what he meant, but it seemed Holmes had finished up his examination of the body.

"We've got an unknown body here," he muttered, replacing his investigative instruments back in their container, "with no visible wounds, and no means of identification. An interesting problem indeed…"

"How did you know the corpse was an unknown if I didn't tell you?" asked an astonished Mr. Winters.

"Come now, sir," replied Holmes "what kind of question is that coming from a member of Interpol? I merely assumed that if you knew the identity of the person lying there, you would have told me when I first approached you." With this, Winters put his face in his hands and muttered something about needing more sleep. "Come along, Watson" called Holmes to me as he turned away from the grim sight before us. "I would very much fancy meeting the others who will be participating in this investigation."


	4. Chapter 4

Holmes looked indecisively about the room. Aside from the standard constable here and there, there were a few peculiar characters that dotted the hall. Holmes looked excited, yet irresolute, as though he was pondering which one to approach first. After a brief moment of consideration, he seemed to decide upon his mark, and motioning for me to follow, proceeded towards the back end of the hallway. We proceeded at a determined pace, and finally came upon a stout, round man, with a head shaped somewhat like an egg. This man was dressed in an extremely unorthodox manner, although somehow strangely immaculate; he had dark hair, which retreated from his head, and green, sharp eyes, somewhat like a cat's. However, his most obvious feature was his pink-tipped nose, and his peculiar moustache, which pointed upward at both ends. Holmes stepped forward and without hesitation, addressed this odd fellow.

"Good evening," said Holmes, drawing the man's attention, "I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate Dr. Watson. Am I correct to assume that you are also investigating this mysterious case, Mr…?" His voice trailed off, leaving the man to fill in his name for our benefit.

"Poirot" came the man's response. "I am Hercule Poirot. And you, monsieur, are standing upon my patent-leather shoes."

"Oh my," said Holmes dryly; noting that he indeed was treading upon Poirot's feet. "Dreadfully sorry, I had barely noticed." He stepped back and extended a hand of apology to Poirot, who took it reluctantly.

"So, what do you think of the case?" I inquired.

"The case?" replied Poirot. "I do not know what to think. I am not, as you say, a typical detective. I follow no vague trail of clues. I work in different areas. And so far, I do not work with much. But fear not, I will apprehend this criminal somehow!" He spoke in what seemed to be rather haughty tones, but I glimpsed something in a glance of his that told me he knew more than he was letting on. We thanked him for his time, and began to head in a different direction, but I caught up with Holmes before he could go speeding off.

"Are we going to be greeting everyone we come across?" I asked impatiently. "Do we not have a criminal we should be searching out right now?"

"Watson," Holmes chided, "It pays just as much to know your allies as your enemies. And since we do not know our enemy just yet, it will do us very well to get to know our allies." I briefly considered that there might be wisdom somewhere in my companion's statement, but quickly returned to my questions.

"What could you have possibly weaned from trading a few sentences with that arrogant mountebank?" Asked I, in probably harsher terms than were required.

"See," began Holmes, letting out a sigh, "you _already_ fall behind, Watson. That is no ordinary man." At this I was confused, and would have continued with my queries, had I not noticed that we now stood before an elderly lady. She had a kindly expression, was dressed head to toe in tweed, and sat on a station bench knitting what I assumed was a scarf. Holmes introduced the two of us, and extended his hand to the woman, who received it warmly. When I asked her name, a compassionate smile came over her face.

"Jane Marple," she replied. "But you can call me Miss Marple, dearie. Most everyone does. How goes the investigation, then? It's a very strange case, isn't it? When I was up there examining the body, I couldn't find anything that might point to a suspect." I was about to answer in the negative, when slowly the realization dawned on me. This aged woman was investigating the cadaver as well? I nearly gave a verbal expression of my shock, but luckily Holmes spoke in my place.

"Unfortunately not," said Holmes, " but I'm sure we'll find something sooner or later. Thank you for your time." Listening to him speak, I saw a brief look play across Miss Marple's wrinkled face. It was both a little devious, and a little competitive, but it was gone from her features as soon as it came. From there, he made a beeline across the hall to where two dark-haired men in trench coats stood, conversing with one another. As we came up to them, they hastily discontinued their conversation, and turned to meet us. Holmes had the honor of introducing us, and asking towards these two men's identities. The man on the left, who was slightly shorter than the other, stepped forward first.

"The name's Archie Goodwin" he declared. "I'm here on the behalf of my employer, Mr. Nero Wolfe. We, eh… look forward to workin' with you."

"That's interesting," I remarked. "Where is your employer, if I might ask?"

"He's not here…" came the reply. "Normally, I'm the one doin' the legwork." I gave the man an encouraging nod, before turning to the other. The yet unknown man was standing over by the wall, his hat pulled over his eyes. In my mind, I doubted whether the man was awake, or had fallen asleep while still standing, but Holmes addressed him directly and informally.

"Name's Sam Spade" said the man. "Private detective. I've seen some strange cases before. But never anything like this." And with that, he excused himself from our company to go look over the body once again. By now, we had met everyone, save for one man who was milling about around the ticket kiosks. Upon approaching him further, he came into view as a short man with dark, curly hair, wearing a crumpled raincoat. He had a slouched posture and was smoking a very potent cigar, which I could tell by Holmes' looks of displeasure was probably not very expensive. The man seemed to be more interested in the decorative touches on the ticket booths than the case, and so, Holmes cleared his throat to get his attention. Upon noticing our presence the man swiftly turned himself around.

"Oh, I'm very sorry sir," he began. "I didn't see you there, and I was just lookin' at these great arches here. Ya see, I'm not actually from New York. My name's Lieutenant Columbo; I'm with the Los Angeles police department, and normally I wouldn't leave the city for a case, but I got the call this mornin' and my wife, she said I should do it, so…" At this point he seemed notice that he was rambling, and he collected himself. He hurriedly extended his hand towards us, as if to make up for lost time. "I'm sorry. Where are my manners? I don't believe I caught your names." After a few introductions and another half-tale about the Lieutenant's wife, we excused ourselves as politely as possible. Columbo amiably waved us farewell, but Holmes' expression told me he didn't think very highly of the good detective.

After acquainting ourselves with the various present investigators, we moved to return to the side of Richard Winters. However, as we were walking towards the center of the room once more, the great clock chimed midnight, and an unnerving chill washed over the hall. I suddenly found myself feeling quite disturbed, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, and for no logical reason that I could discern. I peered about the room, and it seemed that the various officers of the law shared my sentiments. The gathered detectives, rather than appear afraid, had an air of anticipation about them, as if they were about to run a very difficult race. I would rather not say that I hid behind Holmes' back, but I did perform an action quite similar to that.

"It seems the last member our little cavalcade has arrived" said Holmes, turning to face me. However, I discerned that it was not me he was looking at, but rather, something or someone behind me. Almost too afraid to move, I somehow managed to slowly rotate my gaze until my eyes met a figure that I doubt I shall forget for a long time forward. There, roughly 30 yards behind me, crouched a man in a black cowl with points extending from the top, and a long black cape covering most of his body. This newcomer rose up from his position and came to stand, revealing that he was wearing some kind of high-impact suit with a symbol that looked frightfully like a bat emblazoned on the torso. He wore heavy boots and a belt with numerous pouches, as well as black gloves that appeared to have multiple utilities. His eyes were hidden beneath his mask, but something about beholding him instilled a sort of primal fear in me. Luckily, I was able to collect myself and master this irrational fear, long enough to pick myself up off the ground. The stranger moved forward towards Mr. Winters and spoke aloud in a deep, coarse voice.

"I just received the call," he said. "Got here as fast as I could. What's the situation?" Mr. Winters straightened his tie, brushed himself off, and looked directly at this Bat-man.

"It took you long enough" said Mr. Winters. "But I supposed better late than never. Alright, listen up everyone!" He addressed the room. "We're ready to start!"


End file.
